


And so to fade away

by pianoforeplay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-20
Updated: 2011-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-14 22:10:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pianoforeplay/pseuds/pianoforeplay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's still not quite as tall as Dean, but he's getting there. Gaining ground by the second. Like one day Dean'll wake up and Sam will be ten feet tall and growing roots into the soil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And so to fade away

**Author's Note:**

> Sam is around 15; Dean around 19. Written for fayemeadows and initially posted [here](http://pianoforeplay.livejournal.com/20082.html) on 6/23/2009.

Sam's sprawled out on the couch in his boxers, long legs propped up on one end, head on the other, miles of growing bone and muscle in between. Dean doesn't let himself look too long as he grabs a beer from the fridge, the sounds of Alex Trebeck's voice filter through the room, asking one inane question after another.

Sam's grunt answers every now, says, "What are sexually transmitted diseases?" and Dean snorts out a laugh, arches an eyebrow.

"Dude. Way too late for that talk," he says as walks into the living room, opening his can of beer with a _pop-hiss_.

He can practically feel the force of Sam's rolling eyes.

 _"I'll take Medical Mania for 400 please, Alex."_

Dean tilts his head back as he takes a sip, keeps his eyes on the TV screen. "She's kinda hot," he says, nodding at the television. "You know, in a bookish, elderly English teacher kinda way."

"Shut up, Dean."

"Make me. Squirt."

The hot English teacher lady -- Carolyn, according to the scrawl on her nameplate -- gets herself 400 points asks for another in the same category. Dean watches, eyes straight ahead with the rim of the beer bottle resting against his bottom lip. Out the corner of his eye, he can see Sam shift on the couch, legs drawn up briefly and then settled again as he lets out a huff.

"Yeah, I'd totally let her hit me with a ruler," Dean says, tone light. Conversational. When Sam gives no reaction, Dean just continues on. "Just... bend right over her desk, let her pull my jeans down all nice and low and then _bam_!"

"Dean!"

"She'd get all into it, too. Bet she'd let out all these quite little _unh_ noises with each hit, hair all messy and falling apart, face all red. She'd have to unbutton the top of her blouse, let in some air--"

"Ugh. _Dean!_ "

One of the couch pillows hits Dean right in the arm and Dean nearly gets a cut lip when the bottle collides with his mouth, a slosh of beer hitting his chin and dripping down onto his shirt.

"Fuck! Sammy!"

"Why do you always have to be such a jerk?"

Sam's using that tone again, the one he's been using more and more over the past year or so. Whiny, petulant and annoying as all shit. And yeah, Dean gets it. He kinda went through that stage, too, but not like this; Sam's a bigger baby than Dean ever was. Sometimes Dean wonders if that's mostly his fault, but he refuses to take the blame.

"You just make it so easy," Dean replies, head tilted down as he pulls the wet fabric of his shirt away from his chest. It feels cool when it drops back to his skin and he leaves it there, takes another swig of his beer as he walks to the couch. "Move over."

Sam doesn't even look at him, gaze fixed on the television as he stays exactly as he is, his already freakishly long body taking up the whole damn couch.

"Dude," Dean grunts, gives Sam's calf a hard punch. " _Move_."

"You could try _asking_ ," Sam says, still not looking at him.

"Move _now_ , you fuckin' punk."

Dean watches Sam's face tighten, the muscle in his jaw pulsing as he clenches his teeth. He hits Sam's leg again, harder this time, and, fuck, the kid's got some good reflexes on him. Barely a blink and Sam's foot is on Dean's hip, shoving him back.

Dean stumbles, but only a step or two and then his stomach's twisting, amusement somersaulting into irritation as Sam shifts on the couch, stretching out even further, one arm tucked under his chin as he practically glares at the television.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Dean growls. He doesn't wait for an answer, just steps forward and grabs Sam by the ankle, pulling hard. Sam fights it, kicking out at the grip, but Dean's expecting it this time and he moves his attack, hooking an arm around Sam's knee and yanking, beer bottle still held in his other hand.

Because, yeah, the kid may be growing like fucking bamboo, but Dean's still got a couple inches on him and, right now, he also has leverage on his side.

Sam's ass hits the floor with a thunk and a yelp and Dean moves quick, planting a foot in the center of Sam's bare chest before he can even _try_ to sit up.

"Get the fuck off me!" Sam shouts, long fingers wrapping around Dean's leg as he twists and pulls, trying unsuccessfully to unbalance his older brother. "Dean!"

Dean grits his teeth, swaying forward when Sam twists and bucks sharply. The beer slips free of his grip and Dean lets it fall, the carpet keeping it from shattering as it hits the floor.

"Gotta try harder than that, Sammy," Dean says, balance restored now that he has use of both hands. He drops down, replacing his foot with his knee, grips the long strands of Sam's hair with one hand. Sam yelps, a sharp sound that, under different circumstances, would have Dean worrying and scrambling to figure out what hurts and where. But this is different. Dean's in control here and he knows just far to hurt before it's too much.

Plus, Sam's probably playing it up anyway. He knows Dean's weak spots.

"Such-- _fuck_ ," Sam grunts as he writhes under the hold, his knee nearly colliding with Dean's kidneys.

"Language," Dean says, voice low even as his lips twitch with the urge to grin. He's always giving Sam shit for cussing, but only because Dean knows how much it annoys him, how much it makes him sound like Dad. Not because he actually cares.

"Fuck you."

Dean's lips pull back in a leer and he presses forward, crowding in close and Sam wheezes beneath him, smacks at Dean's leg and side. The kid is absolutely _filled_ with pent-up rage and Dean finds it amusing and kind of... well, something else, too. Something darker he doesn't like to dwell on.

Sam practically snarls, lips curled as he punches at Dean's thigh and kicks his legs uselessly. His face is flushed red, the bloom of it spreading down his neck and over his bare shoulders and maybe Dean should be a little freaked out by the fact that his dick is _really_ starting to get interested except this isn't the first time it's happened. He doesn't really know when exactly it started, but at some point in the past few months, Dean's started paying particular attention to the breadth of his brother's shoulders and the long line of his spine, the way his hips have narrowed and a light trail of hair has sprouted south of his belly button.

So he's had some time to try and rationalize it. Break it down and shove it away somewhere in the back of his mind where no one has to see it.

Which actually means he's had some time to jerk off to the image of his baby brother fucking his mouth, some time to wonder what Sam looks like when he comes, what ways his mouth twists and the sounds he makes. He's had some time to wonder if he'd recognize it or if it'd be all new, an angle of Sam Dean hasn't seen before. If there's anything about Sam he doesn't already know.

And yeah, he's freaked out a little bit. It's sick and wrong and perverted and he _knows_ that, but it's not. Well, it's not like he's gonna _do_ anything. Ever. It's his fucking _brother_.

Sam grunts again, winded and straining under Dean's weight, eyes a dark flash as sweat beads at his temples.

"Dean."

It sounds different then, strained and kind of hoarse and just the right timbre to make Dean hesitate.

Sam seizes the opportunity, spindly fingers gripping Dean's waist and _heaving_. Dean's reaction is immediate, borne of a decade's worth of training. His body falls forward, knee sliding down to the carpet as his weight shifts and he catches himself on his hands. He's essentially straddling his brothers chest, knees crammed up under Sam's armpits and Sam's still holding on, _keeping_ him there, pupils blown dark and eyes wide as he stares up at Dean.

Dean doesn't move. His heart thuds hard against his ribcage and he can feel Sam's echoing it beneath him, a steady, dull thud against his thigh. Or it could be his own, his blood pulsing as it rushes south, he doesn't know.

"Dean."

It's quieter that time, ahint of a question that slices down Dean's spine, crackling and wrenching Dean backward. He jumps off like he's been scalded, tripping as he stumbles back, landing hard on his ass two feet away. The impact is hardly graceful and he feels his face flush red as Sam sits up, propped up on his elbows and mouth open as he stares at Dean.

"Stop it," Dean says, one leg bent at the knee as he pushes himself further away.

"Dean, I'm not--"

" _Stop it._ "

Sam's mouth snaps shut hard and fast enough that Dean hears the smack of teeth on teeth.

 _"I'll take Weekdays of Film for 800."_

 _"This 1999 comedy starring Keri Russell takes its name from this popular Beatles song."_

Dean swallows, gaze never leaving his brother's face. "Eight Days a Week," he says, voice scratchy and quiet as it pulls free of his throat.

There's a beat of silence and then, _"Richard."_

 _"What is_ Eight Days a Week _?"_

Sam's eyes dart to the TV screen and Dean can breathe again, shoulders sagging in an exhale as he runs a hand over his face. Jesus, what the fuck is he _doing?_

"Good guess," Sam says as Dean gets to his feet. It still feels awkward, air humming between them.

"Not a guess," Dean says, happy to take the opening for what it is. A way out. "Dude, I know my Keri Russell films."

"Right," Sam says with a snort. He sits up, all knees and elbows and miles of skin in between, floppy-ass hair dropping down over his eyes before he can brush it back off his forehead.

Sam's nose wrinkles as he rubs a hand over his chest and Dean looks away, goes to pick up the dropped bottle. There's a wet patch on the carpet, smell of beer already pungent and Dean says, "You're gonna have to clean that up before Dad gets back," as he tips his head back to empty the bottle into his mouth.

"What?"

Swallowing, Dean points down at the carpet, rubs the back of his hand against his lips.

"I'm not-- that's _your_ beer, Dean."

"Yeah, and you're the one who knocked it over."

"Was not!"

Dean snorts and wanders back into the kitchen. He tosses the bottle into the trash, hearing it hit the bottom with a thunk before grabbing another from the fridge. When he turns, Sam's right there, scowling violently and Dean barely refrains from rolling his eyes.

"I'm not cleaning it," he says.

"Fine," Dean replies, shrugging. "I'm sure dad'll love to hear about why the living room smells like a bar."

"Like he'll even notice."

Dean tenses, his eyes narrowing. "Don't you talk like that, Sammy."

"Why not?" Sam shoots back, stepping in close. He's still not quite as tall as Dean, but he's getting there. Gaining ground by the second. Like one day Dean'll wake up and Sam will be ten feet tall and growing roots into the soil. "It's true, isn't it? You know it is!"

Maybe it is, but that's not the point. The point is that Sam's pissy and angry and he's being completely disrespectful. Whatever Sam thinks of their dad, he's still their _dad_ and it's about time he learned that.

Dean slams the butt of his new beer onto the counter and grabs Sam's wrist at the same time, marches him back to the living room. Sam goes with it for all about two steps and then plants his feet.

"Dean! Goddamnit-- Dean, _quit it!_ "

Dean grits his teeth and tugs harder, turning as they cross the threshold to use both hands. Sam's a stubborn little shit, but Dean's not in the mood to fuck around anymore. He uses his full weight to tug and pull, reacting quickly when Sam manages to slide one hand free. He gets an arm around Sam's middle, the other at the back of his neck and shoves forward.

"You wanna stop acting like a disrespectful little bitch, Sammy?" he growls, forcing Sam closer to the circle of wet carpet.

Sam only answers with a growl of his own, twisting sharply in Dean's hold. Dean anticipates the move a second too late, Sam's pointy fuckin' elbow meeting Dean's stomach before he can manage to curl away.

"Fuckin'-- _punk_!"

It comes out a wheeze, but Dean manages to keep his hold, trying to push Sam down to the floor. He doesn't have anything to actually clean the mess with, hadn't thought that far ahead, but it doesn't matter. Dean knows damn well that Sam won't ever give. The most he can hope for is that, sooner or later, Sam gets the damn message.

" _Asshole!_ " Sam shoots back.

So far, the message isn't getting through.

And then there's a hand in Dean's hair, long fingers gripping the strands and ripping him back. Another shove in his side, a kick and a slip that Dean _really_ should've anticipated and he's falling, crashing hard. His shoulder hits first, nearly knocking the wind from him and his head drops back, landing in the beer-saturated carpet before 150 pounds of little brother lands hard on his stomach.

"It's not my mess, Dean!" Sam shouts right into Dean's face. His knobby knees dig into Dean's sides and his breath smells like garlic and soda.

"Get off me," Dean grunts, one hand on Sam's shoulder, the other shoving at his leg as Dean tries to squirm his way out.

"Yeah, it's not fun, is it?" Sam snipes. A quick hand grabs at Dean's wrist and Dean fights it, rage boiling with panic as Sam smacks Dean's arm, holds it down. Dean pounds and scratches with his free hand before Sam's grabbing it, too, keeping him down, showing far more strength than Dean's ever given him credit for. He's getting stronger faster than Dean can keep up with, muscle packing on along with each new inch of height.

Dean surges upward, fighting for some bit of leverage, but Sam rides it out, hair hanging over his face as he grins down at Dean. It's not friendly or playful; this isn't a simple sparring match. This is Sam pissed off and Dean can feel the heat pooling low in his own stomach, jeans starting too feel too tight, too--

" _Get off me!_ " he shouts, panic creeping dangerously into his voice.

Another lurch and Sam shoves down onto him again, thighs squeezing tight.

Dean's gaze drops downward long enough to see the way Sam's stomach shifts as he breathes, muscles barely visible under smooth, soft skin. The thin cotton of Sam's shorts is stretched tight across his lap and Dean notices the bump right in the middle a second before his head falls back again.

"God _damnit, Sammy_!"

It feels like a plea as much as a shout and he screws his eyes up tight, every muscle in his body going tense as he tries to fight his body's reaction.

"Say uncle."

"We don't even _have_ a--"

Sam grips Dean's wrists tighter, pins him hard as he shoves a knee further into Dean's side. "Say it!"

"Either let me up right now, Sam, or pray you can keep me here for the rest of your goddamn life because I swear to _God_ , I will kick your ass _so hard_ \--"

Sam shifts, weight sliding back and then forward again and Dean's voice gets caught high in his throat, stuck and useless. He doesn't know what's happening, but he _does_ know that it's too much whatever it is. Sam's too close, too heavy, too hot and -- even like this -- too fucking _trusting_. And Dean-- fuck, he can't _do_ this anymore.

Where the burst of strength comes from, Dean doesn't know, but he bucks upward violently, yanking one hand loose to shove Sam off and away as he scrambles free, off balance and desperate. Sam's on him again before he can get too far, latching on him like a fucking octopus, the burst of momentum knocking them both against the wall with a hard thunk.

" _Sam!_ "

It's meant to sound angry, like Sam's finally pushed him too far for once. Because he _has_ : the little shit's finally found the one thing Dean can't fight and he's seemingly milking it for all that it's worth even if he doesn't realize it. But, somehow, it doesn't come out quite right, his voice catching again, tripping past his tongue as he squeezes his eyes shut, turns his hips away from the hand grappling at his hip.

Sam doesn't catch the hint though, just presses in closer, pointed chin digging into Dean's shoulder as he shoves harder. Sam's breath is hot against Dean's neck and Dean can't help the shiver that pulses though him.

"God _damnit_ , Sam!" he groans and it manages to come out right this time, frustration and rage mixing nicely before he buries his elbow in his brother's ribs.

Sam buckles, falling back a half a step, which is all the room Dean needs to finally slip free.

 _"And look! You can just_ see _the difference between Clorox and other brands! After forty washings, this shirt keeps its color!"_

The voice is shrill, disgustingly chipper and Dean glares at her for half a second, gulping in a breath and then turns to his brother.

"Clean it up, Sam," he says one last time and then turns, stomps outside, letting the front door slam behind him.

It's still light out, the sun hovering well over the horizon and air sticky with humidity. Dean walks, shoes kicking up dirt as he wills himself to calm down. But there's still too much. Too many things Dean doesn't want to think about at all, doesn't want to think about ever. His mind zings from one to the other, images crashing and swirling together in a tangled mess, wrapped together like limbs. He doesn't want to pick it apart. Not any of it.

So he doesn't. He just keeps walking, lets his mind scrape over the worst and then slip away. Eventually, he's thinking about Dad, instead, wondering about the hunt, about whether his dad's hurt or even alive. He thinks about calling, but the cellphone they're using is back at the house, on the kitchen table, and it's pointless to call his dad just to check in. They'll hear from him or they won't; Dean can't waste his energy worrying too much anymore.

There's a mosquito bite on his neck when he gets back and Dean grimaces as he scratches at the tender skin, climbs the warped porch steps and heads inside.

The television's off and Sam isn't anywhere to be seen. There's a folded up towel over the wet spot on the carpet and Dean feels a momentary pang of guilt. Such a stupid thing to get pissed over, but Sammy...

Sammy's standing just inside the kitchen, looking awkward in the bad overhead lighting, too tall and too thin. Gangly. So much like the little brother Dean's known since forever and so much like a stranger.

Dean swallows down the urge to apologize, instead says, "Dad call?"

Sam shakes his head, crosses his long arms over his chest. "Where'd you go?"

"Took a walk."

"You missed Wheel of Fortune."

And, just like that, Dean can push it all aside. His brother's changing, growing up and blowing Dean's entire world apart and there's nothing he can do to stop it. All he can do is let go.

He lets a smile tug at the corner of his lips. Says, "Yeah, well, Wheel of Fortune sucks anyway."

 **end.**


End file.
